


Harvest to Home: Summer

by AdamantEve



Series: If Stories Wrote Themselves [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Bughead, Drabble, F/M, Harvest to Home, continues from Harvest to Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 23:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantEve/pseuds/AdamantEve
Summary: A drabble from what should’ve been a Harvest to Home coda. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it, but I like what I’ve written and I thought maybe it was time to share it.  Thanks to @i-know-you-can @strangenightsofdaydreams and @melimelrockswell1204 for inspiring me to post this.If you want to readHarvest to Homefirst, that might help you appreciate this one.





	Harvest to Home: Summer

The central air conditioning was dead.

Betty had, for the past three years, expressed concern that the thing was way past its expiration date and had been predicting its demise since, and each year it sputtered on, roaring its cool air into the house. Twice it had blown a fuse and Jughead, challenged by Betty’s dismissal of it, grappled with Google and managed to replace the blown fuse and got it working again.

He was never a handyman, but when it came to this air conditioner, he claimed himself an expert on it.

This time, however.

_This time._

Replacing the fuse was not working, and Jughead, sweating bullets from his body and a stream of profanity from his lips, was by turns Googling and fiddling with its monstrous motor with a tool that was probably wholly inappropriate for the task.

“Those were intensely bad words, daddy. Mommy’s going to be incredibly angry.”

Madeline Vee Jones, Jughead’s 5 year old daughter had been taught by both of her writer parents that there were words better than “really”, so she was using two that she had recently learned. Using those words to tell her father what was what would’ve been a delightful thing, but at the moment, Jughead couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Maddy, sweetheart, sometimes daddy needs to express himself and a ‘gosh darn it’ just doesn’t cut it, ya know?” He banged on the side of the casing in frustration. “Work, you goddamn piece of—!”

Madeline stared wide-eyed at him, expecting the worse.

He bit his lip and sighed. “Trash.”

Something sparked, and Jughead jumped back, screaming the F word as he picked Madeline up and brought her a safe distance away. There was smoke, and all he could think was that if Betty, out shopping with the other kids, came home with Riverdale Farms burnt to cinders, he was probably sleeping with the goats.

******************

When Betty walked in with their eight year olds Trevor and Peg, and 2 year old FP from the truck, the house was blessedly unharmed and as beautiful as the first day Jughead set foot in it, but when she walked through the front door and felt the overwhelming heat of no air conditioning, she eyed Jughead suspiciously.

“It’s dead, isn’t it?” she asked as he and Madeline sat on the couch, an electric fan directed right at them.

“Daddy said so many bad words,” Madeline wailed, her dark hair blowing in ringlets.

“Traitor,” Jughead told her.

“Hi, Dad! It’s so hot!” Trevor cried, heading for the kitchen.

Peg ran right after him. “If you’re having ice cream, I’m having ice cream, too!”

“No ice cream! Not until after dinner!” Betty cried after them as she waddled to the couch. FP wiggled to be let go and when she set him down, he climb right onto Jughead, his chubby arms clinging to his dad.

“Just the ice pops, mom!” Peg cried back. “Just a little! Trev and I will share!”

“Hey there, little guy,” Jughead cooed at FP, rubbing his back soothingly. “What’s going on?”

FP burrowed his face in the crook of Jughead’s neck.

“He just missed you,” Betty said, rubbing Jughead’s knee. “He’s such a daddy’s boy. He kept saying Da the whole time we were shopping.”

She sat between Jughead and Madeline, pulling Madeline onto her lap. She kissed Madeline’s forehead. “I missed this one.”

Madeline giggled and kissed Betty’s cheek.

Betty pinched her nose lightly, hugging her until Madeline complained. She always missed her kids, whether she had to be away from any of them for days or just a few hours. “And how about you, baby? Do you want ice pops?”

“Daddy gave me loads.”

Betty shot Jughead a chastising look.

Jughead grinned. “I was bribing her. We’re still working on the concept of me giving her something and her giving me something back in return.”

“What have I been telling you about that air conditioner?” she asked, primly.

“That your husband’s magic hands can get it to work again.”

“I never said that. Never. Can we finally get it replaced? I don’t know why you cling to that old thing. It’s not like we couldn’t afford it.”

He rubbed her arm. “Hey, I’m a handyman.”

Betty rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh, but not to spare his feelings. It was purely so that she could more effectively make fun of him. “You are a writer and an unofficial farmhand, but never a handyman.”

“I’m just padding my resume, honey. You never know when I’ll need a new job.”

She gave him a fond smile. It was the Jones in him, she knew. This constant state of having something he could call real work.

Over the last eight years, Jughead’s books had skyrocketed up the lists, with a long-running, critically acclaimed and immensely popular series to accompany each one.

He’s had a hefty paycheck altogether that would probably allow him to never work another day in his life and send their four kids to college, but work he did. He wrote and published his books, promoting them as if the show didn’t do that for him already, and he was a constant presence in the show’s writers room.

But yesterday, he submitted the final draft of the book in his series to his editor. It would be the glorious end to his beloved crime universe, and maybe, she thought, he felt old, and perhaps he didn’t want to be tossed aside just yet.

He was by no means broken, either. He was a thriving, handsome man who had four children that adored him and a “trophy wife”—as Betty joked and Jughead hated. It was a reference to a gossipy blog that had called her “Jughead Jones’s trophy wife, domestic goddess and entrepreneur, Elizabeth Cooper-Jones. Take that, Trula!”

“The patriarchy rears its ugly head, still,” Jughead had moaned, dramatically. She loved his dramatic streak. She loves everything about him, still.

Her desire for him hadn’t waned in the least, which was definitely why they kept having these children.

“Why don’t you let me give Reggie a call so he could hook us up with his air-conditioning buddy, okay? That way, we don’t have to think about it and we’d probably magically have a new unit by the end of the week.”

Jughead made a sound. “He’s gonna know I lost the fight.”

“Oh, please.”

Eight years and Jughead and Reggie were still as competitive as hell.

Jughead quirked his eyebrow at her, his eyes giving her the once over. “But I still get to sleep with you, so I still win.”

Again, she had to roll her eyes.

“I get to sleep with mommy, too! So I win like daddy!” Madeline cried.

Jughead pinched Madeline’s chin. “Believe me, pumpkin. When it comes to sleeping with mommy, daddy always wins.”

Betty’s no-doubt scathing reproach was, fortunately, cut off by Madeline’s “I’m not a pumpkin, I’m jicama!”


End file.
